Monaco Ville
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: "I think," the Frenchman chuckles haughtily, "I know where my own sister lives. Come along dearest."/"Not your   dearest  ," the inevitable grumble comes. / FrUK   Francis being a good big brother. Because Monaco is my favorite country ever.


Author's note: There is only one place I love more than France, and that is Monaco. Also I learned Monaco might not have a human name? In my mind she's always been **Camille Bonnefoy**; dunno why, but there you go. Probably Tumblr's fault. I just love the sibling relationship.

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><p><strong>Monaco-Ville<strong>

"Your sister doesn't even like me," Arthur murmurs as the train pulls into the station. "Well," the Englishman corrects himself, "sometimes I think she doesn't like you either but, eh, she's French."

"Don't say that to her," Francis whispers, leading the way off the train and to the right.

"Isn't it this direction idiot?" Turning he finds Arthur pointing stupidly at the sign for Monte Carlo to the left.

"I think," the Frenchman chuckles haughtily, "I know where my own sister lives. Come along dearest."

"Not your « dearest »," the inevitable grumble comes from behind as he sets off down the long train station. Francis simply holds his hand out knowingly behind his back, the familiar warmth taking hold of it as they pass vending machines.

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><p>"Hot," his boyfriend says for the third time in two minutes. Arthur isn't even wearing a coat, just his jeans and old blue sweatshirt that reads "MONACO &amp; Monte Carlo" in big letters from their last trip here. It looks nice on him, Francis thinks, which is why he'd bought it for his boyfriend; it shows off just how lanky Arthur is, thin compared to the other Germanic nations who are all angles and strength (well, sans Roderich perhaps). "There's even-" and Arthur gestures desperately toward the palm tree across the street, quite happily soaking in the sun's rays. "Fucking ridiculous here!"<p>

"Wishing you were French?" He gave up smoking for Arthur, so Francis has to play with the ends of his scarf to keep his fingers busy while they wait on the bench by the cathedral.

Arthur's mouth is to one side, pressed into a thin line as he eyes the other suspiciously. "Non," he states, playing up the French accent.

"Non what?" a voice asks from behind: female, annoyed, southern French.

"Camille!" Francis is warm in his welcome, embracing and kissing the Monegasque. His sister is as stand-offish as ever for the time being; like Arthur she has her moments in private, where her guard comes down and she lets that inner Bonnefoy warmth she too possess shine through.

"Francis." Her arms around his neck hold him for a second longer than he'd expected; it makes the older brother smile.

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><p>The food is wonderful, impressing even the French nation who normally prefers his own cooking to all others. But then again, Camille knows how fussy her brother is. The wine, the salad, the raviolis and the cheese: it's subtle, understated in a knowing way that's all French with just a little bit of something else that's Monacan.<p>

Beside him Arthur is leaning back, rubbing his stomach. Camille is still picking at her place in her ladylike way. "Ça va?" she whispers quietly. Francis smiles.

"C'est parfait, ma chérie."

"Pas en français," Arthur groans. "To full to listen."

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><p>The men have their heads cocked to one side, Camille looking impatient. There's barely anyone in the square, being late December and all. The palace guards recognize them by this point, letting them be. They tend to do this every time they come out to Monaco-Ville, the surprise never wearing off.<p>

"And you've lived with this family for how long again?" Arthur asks.

"It is impressive," Francis murmurs in agreement. Camille tuts smugly.

"Since the thirteenth century." Arthur turns his head the other way, taking in the yellow palace. While Francis would have preferred to look at the pink, orange, and yellow buildings behind him, he turns his head too to mimic his lover. Camille starts walking forward. "Allons-y," Francis catches his sister whispering in a quiet but cheery voice.

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><p>They watch the sun set in one of the gardens over cliffs that guard ancient bays. Under one arm Arthur is wearing Francis's coat, having finally admitted that it's cold as the day dies down. Under his other arm Camille gently tells her big brother stories in hushed French. Francis runs a hand through his hair in exhaustion and satisfaction.<p>

"You should visit more," the little Monaco whispers in her Ligurian dialect; she's the only one Francis speaks it with, but then again he did learn it for her centuries ago.

"I'd have to bring this one," he murmurs as Arthur takes a picture on his phone, no doubt tweeting it to make Alfred jealous.

"That's ok, I guess." Francis smiles, kissing his sister's forehead. It's the closest to approval she'll ever give him, and he knows the weight those simple words carry. "Je t'aime, Francis."

"Je t'aime aussi, ma chérie."


End file.
